


Writing letters to ghosts

by keysburg



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst and Feels, Canon Disabled Character, Comfort Food, Gambler!Sousa, Internalized Homophobia, JackDaniels, Love Letters, M/M, No SSR, POV Alternating, Poet!Jack, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Smut, Souson - Freeform, Tuxedos, assumes everything is the same until after the war, bebop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:31:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keysburg/pseuds/keysburg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without the SSR, after the war both Jack Thompson and Daniel Sousa are left to their own devices.  Can they manage to be the men they would have otherwise been?  Will they lift each other up, or drag each other down?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buried in the dirt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [charleybradburies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/gifts).



> because you made me love Jack Thompson...
> 
>  

_brown to black_  
_sandy to sticky_  
_pink dawn reveals red---_

The words just weren’t coming today. Jack had been staring at those lines for hours with no progress, and now he was out of cigarettes. His fingers stank of cloves anyway; it was probably time for a break. Outside the day had grown hot, but he wanted to be out in it--somewhere where there would be sweat and muscle and struggle.

**  
The picks just weren’t coming today. Daniel had been staring at his bet slips for hours with no success, and now he was out of money. There were only two more races anyway; it was almost time for a drink. Outside the day had grown hot, and he wanted to be out of it--somewhere where there would be gin and leather and he wouldn’t have to struggle with this blasted crutch.

**  
Jack stood at the rail of the track, trying to find the best way to describe horses racing. He ended up with a list of adjectives, describing their muscles, their labored breathing, the foamy sweat and how it accumulated. He had almost enough down to work with when it happened. As he watched, a horse overstretched, stumbled, and fell in the corner of the track approaching the stands. The scream it gave sounded almost human. When it struggled back up, the angle of its foreleg was wrong. All speed and grace gone in a moment, never to return.

He turned away, stomach churning. He saw blood made black by firelight again. Bodies going boneless in the sand, half a world away. Around him people were streaming to the rail to watch the spectacle, and he stumbled away, further sickened by their reaction. Heading for the exit, Jack didn’t even see the man he crashed into.

**  
When the horse went down, Daniel took the opportunity to get a headstart on the crowds. That horse should have been retired a season ago; the only sad part was that it’d be chow instead of siring more good horses. He’d made enough money on the next-to-last race for his supper, liquid and otherwise. The looky loos would linger for a bit, allowing him to take his time getting outside. It should have worked that way. He got bumped into from behind, and just as he was swinging his prosthesis and crutch forward. He followed them down, although he managed to get his right hand out and catch himself before his face crashed into the cement below.

“Oh, hell, I’m so sorry,” his assailant was babbling, “I didn’t see you at all.” He crawled to get Daniel’s crutch for him and went to pull him up. Something stopped the other man short, as he checked himself sharply and settled for handing over the crutch. He looked away while Daniel pulled himself off the ground.

“It’s fine,” he sighed, standing. He really did need that gin. “I do it once a week myself.” Daniel had slammed his knee pretty good, and rubbed at it, waiting for the pain to subside. 

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” The clumsy Joe was a bit taller than him, narrow-framed and wearing expensive clothes. Blond with an upturned nose, he also looked even worse than Daniel felt, pale and sweating and twitchy. 

A shot cracked the air, the horse being put out of it’s mercy. Daniel saw the other man flinch and turn even whiter. 

“I think you’re the one who needs to sit down. You look like you’re going to faint.” 

“No, I--I just need to get out of here. Sorry again.” 

Daniel looked at the blond man and sighed. He knew that jumpy reaction too well after the time he spent in the hospital. Sometimes the worse part of recovering from his injury was dealing with all the shell shock cases. His leg had been stretched and sewed and reshaped and they made a vague approximation of a new one and sent him on his way. The men who came back a little funny didn’t get help being remade; they had to do it themselves. Daniel didn’t want to, but he felt bound by honor and camaraderie to help this man. 

Besides, maybe he could get something out of it.

“I was headed out too,” he said easily. “How about I let you buy me a drink as a real apology for knocking me down?”

“You--sure. If it means leaving. I’m Jack, by the way.”

“Daniel Sousa.” 

Jack insisted on getting a cab, normally too rich for Daniel’s blood. This was already working out splendidly. He was too tired to take offense at the idea it might be due to his leg. Jack was also too busy scribbling in a notebook to direct said cab, so Daniel gave the address for his favorite pub. At least the man paid when they arrived.

The place was still a bit slow, it being too early for the dinner rush. It worked out fine because Lucy had his usual over for him before they had settled down. Daniel waited for Jack to sit across from him before stretching out his prosthetic. The booths here had a lot of patches but they were also slightly higher than normal, which made it easier for him to sit and a lot easier to stand up again later, assuming he didn’t drink his legs out from under himself. 

“Hey sugar, here you go. What’s your friend drinking?” Jack made a face at his gin and tonic before ordering a whiskey on the rocks. 

“No problem. You guys want menus?” 

“Maybe in a little bit, Lu. Thanks,” Daniel said. He started drinking, unable to wait. The first drink only took the edge off the pain, but it released the tension in the rest of his body. Walking with the crutch meant his back and arms were always tight. 

**  
Daniel Sousa gulped his gin so quickly, it was gone before the waitress was back--which didn’t seem to be a problem, since she brought him a second round with Jack’s drink. Well, Daniel wouldn’t be the first drunk Jack plied for a story. And this man obviously had one. Maybe it would shake some words out of Jack’s head at last. He might not open up easy though. There had been a dangerous flash in the man’s dark eyes when Jack tried to help him off the ground. Best to start slow.

“So, what do you do, Daniel?” Before he answered, he looked at Jack carefully, like he was searching for any hint of mockery.

“These days I work as a librarian. And you?” _These days._ Was he planning something better or was Daniel still stuck in the past?

“Kinda related actually, I’m a writer.” Jack caught Daniel smirking into his gin. It wasn’t a bad look on him. “What? Go ahead and say it, I’ve heard it all.”

“I was just wondering how that paid.” 

“Okay, you got me there. Haven’t made any money at it yet. I’m on a parole, of sorts. After my discharge, I got a year to live on my own. My father thinks I’m trying to decide if I should continue on to law school or… I don’t know. Something equally respectable. But if I can get something published, I might be able to get a stay of execution.” Jack took a big sip of his drink. 

“And how much time is left of this year?”

“About five months.”

“Yeah? It’s never too early to start auditioning your last meal, you know. The fish and chips here are pretty good, and you can buy, rich boy.” 

His tone made it the kind of smart prodding that would have gotten Jack into a bar fight back in college. He thought about hitting Daniel, who was calmly waiting to see how his insult would land. It would feel good to crunch his fist into that handsome face. His nose would probably break, he’d probably bleed--Jack’s stomach started to turn. 

“That sounds fine by me,” he responded agreeably, flipping his notebook back open to scribble something about soft spots in young men. Soft spots and calluses. When he looked back up, Daniel was watching him, expression unreadable. He didn’t comment on the notebook. 

“So what’s it like being a librarian? Spend all your days checking books in and out?” Jack asked before finishing his drink and signalling the waitress. 

“No, I’m not in circulation. I’m in cataloging.” 

“What’s the difference?” This earned Jack a sigh, like Daniel heard that question a lot. 

“Circulation librarians do everything you think of: check books in and out, shelve them when they come back in, help people find materials. In cataloguing, when new books come in we prepare them for the shelves and we update the card catalog, preparing cards for topic, author, so on.”

“That sounds… repetitive.” 

“It’s okay, you can say dull. It has some perks. I get first read of any book I’m interested in borrowing, and we have our own phonograph in the office. The library has almost five thousand records available to borrow.” Something in Daniel’s eyes changed then, weary resignation fading. Jack felt an answering spark. 

“Wow. Are you going to listen to them all?”

“I never thought about that. I usually just listen to my favorites. Or we listen to Lottie’s favorites, the other cataloger. She’s a big fan of classical music.” 

They were interrupted when the waitress brought over another round. Jack ordered two plates of fish and chips while she was there. 

“Do you like jazz? I know this great spot; it really gets cookin’ on Thursday nights. It’s a fun crowd, too.”

“I do, but… not exactly going out dancing these days, you know?”

“It’s not that kind of jazz. It’s too fast and unpredictable for that. You just listen and let it tell you a story.”

“I might be able to get into that. You’re big into stories, huh?”

“Said the librarian to the writer. I think there’s a joke in there somewhere, Sousa.”


	2. Only my time is wasting

Daniel was on the subway, wishing he’d had another drink before leaving to meet Jack. He wasn’t too sore, having spent most of the day at work sitting. The jostle of the train still made him very physically aware of his prosthetic, even as he tried to relax. He was also sharply aware of the eyes on his crutch, and the eyes carefully adverted. Another drink would have softened the sting. On his daily commute he had mostly managed to fade into the background with the other passengers. Tonight he was very aware of the novelty of taking a different train to a different part of the city. 

He used to like new things.

Maybe that was why he had agreed to meet Jack tonight. He wasn’t certain why a rich boy or a writer would be interested in extending an invitation to him at all. Daniel couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a charity case or a subject of grim fascination. He didn’t want to be either, even if he let Thompson pay most of their bill at the tavern. At the racetrack Jack had seemed disturbed, but at the pub he recovered. Certainly he nosed around the topic of Daniel’s injury without finesse, shame, or anything approaching sensitivity. In his experience, that wasn’t unusual when meeting new people. Daniel gained a certain amount of satisfaction from playing dumb and making those conversations as awkward as possible. Most people realized their gaffes eventually and were properly embarrassed, but not Jack. At least the man stopped short of asking straight about what happened or what it looked like. 

Superficially, it was nice to have plans. Good to have something to look forward to, other than his weekly--or biweekly--sojourn to the track. With company too, which always made it easier to ignore unwanted attention brought by his crutch and uneven gait. Maybe he was invited just to make Jack look good to the ladies. Even if it was loud and he just ended up being Jack’s prop, Daniel still might enjoy himself. 

When Daniel emerged from the subway, Jack was waiting at the top of the stairs. He looked sharp in his hat and coat--again more expensive than Daniel’s wardrobe. Jack flashed a quick smile and fell into stride, pointing out an unmarked green door on the left. 

The lack of a sign made Daniel hesitate. Jack ended up grabbing the door and holding it open for him. He reminded himself to appreciate the gesture, despite not wanting it. A long dim hallway gave way to a room bright with activity. People were mingling at a bar and around tables, conversation almost obscuring the background music. It was coming from a suitcase phonograph, propped up in the middle of a small corner stage. Jack went to the bar while Daniel grabbed a table. 

The crowd was interesting and nothing like he expected. It was more working class and diverse than he had assumed Jack would prefer. There was an even mix of men and women, white and colored, all dressed for a good time. It was a fairly young crowd and rather liberal at that, with more than a few girls in laps and even a couple pairings he thought might be queer. 

Daniel started to wonder if Jack brought him here as some sort of test. He watched Jack returning from the bar, drinks in hand, smiling and somehow looser. A few girls greeted him on the way and he responded with nods and kissed a few cheeks but arrived back at the table alone. He wouldn’t have taken Jack for a flit, but even if he was, it didn’t explain why Daniel was here. Jack’s pert little nose and blue eyes meant he probably didn’t have any issues getting dates of any kind. 

“How was work? Jack asked, sliding his gin over.

“Same as always. How about you, how was your day?”

Jack only shook his head.

“How do you even know you had a good day, anyway?” Jack appeared to think that over. 

“When I manage to write something true, I guess.”

“As in non-fiction?” Daniel thought Jack had said he mostly wrote poetry, although the end of their previous night was fuzzy enough that he could be mistaken.

“You said you read a lot. Haven’t you ever read a work of fiction that somehow rings truer than your own life? That’s what I mean. Just because it’s fiction doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” 

“No wonder you aren’t making any money. People don’t want the truth, Jack. The truth is ugly. They want escapism.” People started to holler as the musicians approached the stage, instruments in hand.

“Even if you’re right about people, I don’t think you’re right about truth. It’s not always one thing or another.” Jack nodded at the stage. “Like music. It’s different things to different people.”

Daniel normally thought of music as soothing. It used to be mostly fun, at USO dances or a quick few minutes stolen before bed when he was younger. Then the radio had been his companion when he was laid up, too muddled on morphine to read or write home. Sometimes when his leg was aching and he was rationing the gin until payday, he lay in bed and let himself drift with it.

This music was neither of those things. Jack had been right when he said it was too quick for dancing; it was also too unpredictable. It seemed less like a story to Daniel and more like a series of conversations between the musicians--in a language he wasn’t sure he understood. Some of it seemed strident and argumentative. Other sections sounded persuasive somehow; more like a seduction. He watched the crowd, who apparently had known what to expect. They bopped along with the fast parts; they swayed when it slowed. 

Jack sat with his eyes closed for most of it. Daniel watched him tense with increases in tempo, jaw set for the most measured beats. Towards the end of the first set, the tempo slowed and the volume dropped, sounding almost like a breathy coo. Jack opened his eyes then, returning his gaze. Daniel wasn’t sure if it was a challenge or an interrogation he was facing, his heart racing regardless. He finally broke the eye contact as the song ended.

When he returned from the bar with a round for both of them, Jack was chatting with a dignified looking woman standing by his chair. She was wearing trousers and what Daniel was pretty sure was a man’s button down shirt. Her tie was certainly menswear. 

“Daniel, meet my friend Sal. Sal, this is Daniel. He’s a librarian,” Jack said. 

Sal shook his hand very firmly, looking him up and down in a considering manner. 

“Nice to meet you. Where’d you dig this one up, Jacky?”

“We met at the racetrack,” Daniel supplied. Sal burst out laughing.

“You can find ‘em anywhere, I swear, Jacky. I wish you’d teach me the trick. You boys have a good night.” She nodded to Daniel and wandered off. That confirmed a few things. Meanwhile Jack was turning red. It was a good look on him. 

“I am sorry about that. She makes assumptions. I certainly didn’t--”

“She? I thought that was a man?” Daniel tried to look innocent as he sat back down.

It took Jack a little longer than he expected.

“You--you’re _messing_ with me. You were messing with me the other night too, weren’t you?” 

Daniel didn’t answer, just sipped at his drink.

“So you’re not--”

“I’m mostly curious how you found this place. You obviously have to know where it is to find it.” 

“Yeah, a friend from school, his brother is attending Columbia. He wanted me to keep him out of trouble--”

“How’s that going?” Daniel asked, sarcastic. Jack shot him a dirty look. 

“You could say my friend and I don’t have the same ideas of what ‘trouble’ means. It’s not my fault he wasn’t specific. Anyway, his brother introduced me to some other people; they hang out down here a lot.”

“So, do you normally follow younger men around, or--” 

“You know what, Sousa?” Jack was getting irritated now; it was an even better look on him than embarrassment. “I’ve had about enough.”

“Good thing the band’s on its way back up, then.” Jack’s reply was cut off by the trumpet singing a rapid solo while the rest of the band got into place. Daniel wasn’t sure what made him so defensive that he needed to poke at Jack. Other than it had been a long time--before he lost his leg--that he had been on the receiving end of anyone’s interest, male or female. 

The second set was somehow both sadder and sweeter than the first. Or it might have been the alcohol catching up with him. Jack went for another round before it was over and Daniel drank it willingly, but it definitely diminished his good mood. When he was alone he hardly noticed the bittersweet shadow creeping over the evening, but here in public it made him feel worse than usual. 

Everyone started to clear out after the set, but Jack didn’t appear to pick up on his mood change as they headed out the street. It had rained a little while they were inside, the pavement slick underfoot as they drifted to the corner. 

“So, my garret is just down the street if you wanted another drink.” Jack was obviously trying to sound casual. 

“Your _garret?_ ” There was more scorn than Daniel intended, but the pretension there was too much to ignore.

“What?” Jack asked.

“You really are an idle rich boy, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But at least I’m pretty?” Jack was trying to make it a joke but there was something a little too earnest behind it. 

Daniel sighed and nodded, but more to himself. That deserved a firm signal one way or another but he couldn’t bring himself to make one. He wanted to, but he felt a prickle that made him hesitate. 

“Unfortunately I have work tomorrow, so I’ll have to take a raincheck. I’ll catch you another time.” He meant to make a swift exit for the subway but ended up slipping on the wet sidewalk, crutch skidding down into the street. He caught himself before he completely lost his balance, but it was close.

“Let me get you a cab, Daniel,” Jack said, putting his hand in the air. A cab did sound like heaven right now, but he didn’t have enough cash on him.

“Oh, no, the subway will be fine. I’ll be careful, it’s just wetter than I expected--” 

Jack had already managed to flag a cab.

“I’ll be picturing you sprawled at the bottom of the station stairs all night if you don’t take this cab. Here, my treat.” Jack slipped him a couple bucks before he could protest and then opened the door of the cab for him like--like he was a dame. Daniel wanted to get angry about it, but it was late and he was tired and this would get him home much sooner. And Jack’s hand was squeezing his arm above the elbow, implying something Daniel was too tired to think about right then. 

“Thanks, Thompson. See you later.”


	3. Someone I wanted the most

After Daniel practically ran away from him, the last thing Jack expected was an invitation to dinner--at the man’s apartment, no less. It seemed too much to hope that Daniel returned his interest; this was more likely an offer made out of social obligation. They made the world go ‘round, after all. It might seem personal to be invited to his home but that was probably due to Daniel’s limited resources. Jack keenly remembered his mother having to entertain as his father tried to make some powerful friends. Meeting the social obligations of the rich and connected was a difficult task before the fortune came along to help. 

If it was only an obligatory gesture, it would be more polite to turn down the invitation, but Jack had no interest in doing that. So he showed up a polite ten minutes late, two bottles of wine in hand. 

“Come on in,” Daniel invited. His apartment was pretty much what Jack expected, modest in size and furnishing but tidy as a pin.

“I brought--” Jack held out the bottles for his inspection.

“Oh, thank you. I still have to fry up the sausage Why don’t you get that open while I do that? If you’re hungry, that is.” Daniel set a couple glasses and a corkscrew on his small kitchen table and turned back to his stovetop. Both burners were in use, a big stewpot on one and a frying pan on the other. 

“I am, actually. And it smells great.” 

Jack opened the wine, a spread of papers pinned to the wall catching his eye. He stepped over to look at them while he let the bottle breathe. There was a large calendar constructed on a couple sheets of butcher paper. Stuck to it was an insane amount of betting slips, horse profiles, official and recalculated odds, and payouts. It must have taken a long time assemble, but Daniel had apparently been doing very well betting on the horses until recently. A couple big bets more or less wiped him out. 

“If you collect enough information, sometimes there’s a pattern,” he informed Jack. He seemed a little embarrassed. “Races are most predictable mid-season. After that, luck seems to screw everything up. There’s too many chances for injury, overwork, poor nutrition, and bad training to undercut the performance of the best horses.”

“Seems like the smart plan is to only bet mid-season.” 

“That’s accurate. If I collect more data over multiple seasons I might be able to figure out what type of horses or which stables manage to use the unpredictability to their advantage, meaning only the first few weeks would be unprofitable.” The calculations running between the dates made Jack’s head swim. He figured he’d stick to words. 

“Why horses?” Jack asked, pouring the wine. “Do you ride?”

“Oh, no. Born and raised in the city. I just like them, I guess. Races are straightforward too. There’s strategy, but usually the fastest horse wins.” Daniel set out plates of fried sausage, sliced bread, and bowls of some kind of stew for both of them. 

“That doesn’t look straightforward,” Jack said, waving his hand at the wall.

“A single race is straightforward. A horse’s career is usually more interesting, and it gives me something to puzzle out at work. It breaks up the tedium of doing the same tasks.”

“If you don’t like the work, why don’t you go to college? The GI Bill would cover it,” Jack said. He imitated Daniel, adding some sliced sausage to the top of his stew and buttering a slice of bread. “You’re clearly smart enough.”

Daniel took a couple gulps of wine while he considered this. Meanwhile, Jack started on the stew. The pork and the beans were flavored with garlic and cooked to the point where they melted in his mouth. The sausage slices were spicy and crispy, providing a contrast to the flavor and the texture of the stew. 

“I--I have a lot of pain sometimes. It’s worse in winter. But sometimes it’s bad enough that I can’t really concentrate on anything. That--” Daniel waved a hand at the wall, “--it doesn’t matter if that gets done or not. It would be an awful waste of money if I went to school and ended up flunking out because I couldn’t get the work done.”

“What if you moved somewhere warmer?” Daniel gave him an incredulous look. His dad looked at him like that, like he said something stupid. Jack _hated_ that look. “I’m serious. I’ve got a couple buddies from service, they moved out west on the advice of their doctors. Warmer weather and lower humidity means they have a lot less issues with pain.”

“Yeah, I should just get my daddy to pay for it too.” Daniel was defensive. Jack cast a look back at the wall. At one point, Daniel had been flush enough to accomplish it on his own, but that hardly seemed polite to point out. 

“Sorry. I’m sure you appreciated last week’s indian summer more than most of us.” Jack had reasons to dread the sloppy mess of winter in New York. Daniel would have even more with his injury and his crutch. 

“I don’t appreciate the rain we had today, that’s for sure. Can I get you some more stew?” Jack had finished his bowl already.

“I’ll get it, thanks.” Jack stood and headed for the pot on the stove. “Did you really make this? It’s delicious.” 

“Thank you. Yes, it’s a family recipe.”

“I can’t remember when I last got a home cooked meal. One of these days, I might turn into a sandwich. Thanks for inviting me.”

“There’s dessert, too,” Daniel smiled. 

Dessert turned out to be a cake made with layers of thin crispy cookies and a rich egg cream, flavored with coffee. Afterward they settled on the couch with the second bottle of wine. 

Jack knew this was dangerous territory. Their conversation had been fun and bordering on flirty once he stopped offering unwanted advice. Now he longed to avoid whatever made Daniel run before. So he told his best story, describing a simple misunderstanding with a dumb fellow sailor. It ended in an injury that left Jack unable to sit on his butt for almost a month. Daniel was wiping the tears from his eyes by the end.

“I don’t believe you,” he laughed. “There’s no way that happened.” Jack held up his hand. 

“My word to God, Sousa.”

“You do not have a scar that looks like Bette Davis, no way.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Jack retorted. 

Daniel froze. That was the wrong thing to say, Jack didn’t want to make him self-conscious-- 

“That’s sick, Jack,” Daniel replied. Jack didn’t appreciate the judgement.

“I don’t care,” he said. “You’re not a sissy, don’t act like one. Let me see.” He looked up into the other man’s dark eyes, all the darker now for the drinks they’d had. Daniel wasn’t looking at him at all, his eyes across the room, staring at the far wall. But after a moment he sighed, and hauled himself to his feet. A lump rose in Jack’s throat as Daniel undid the belt, dropped his pants unceremoniously to the floor. Then he sat back down, and loosening a few straps, dislocated the wooden prosthetic. He set it against the couch and leaned back against the sofa, although there was new tension in his body. His last motion was to peel off a sock that covered the end of the leg. Jack forgot himself, leaning over for a closer look.

There wasn’t much to see, Daniel’s loose boxers reaching almost to the end of where his leg stopped, around mid-thigh compared to the other leg. It was mostly white now, with a slightly raised scar on the sides that ran underneath. There was a single red welt on the inside of the thigh where the socket of the prosthetic had been rubbing, and the whole bottom was callused. Jack expected it to smell like the wounds he was familiar with, but of course those had been gangrenous. There was no infection here, no real wound to speak of anymore, save the welt. The only smell was a little sweat and well, Daniel. More than usual, with his pants on the floor. 

“Well?”

“I’m disappointed. If it gives you so much trouble, it ought to be monstrous. It’s just short.” Jack turned his head slightly from where he was leaning over Daniel’s lap, his eyes searching. They found nothing before a hand on the back of his neck pulled him up and lips crashed into his, searingly hot. 

Their kiss was rough, challenging. Teeth clashed and Jack noted dimly his own growls as he tried to give as good as he got. At first he was afraid to do anything that might make the kiss end, but then he grew bolder. He lay his right hand on Daniel’s injured leg, sliding his fingers under the leg of the boxers. On the way he found the line between scarred and undamaged tissue, divided by changing skin textures and the reappearance of hair. Daniel froze underneath him, and Jack took the opportunity to lighten the kiss. Their lips were swollen now, and he flicked his tongue gently, teasingly, around Daniel’s mouth, until he felt him relax. Then Jack started trailing kisses up Daniel’s jaw, his thumb running back and forth along the muscular thigh beneath the boxers. 

“I suppose next you’ll want to see my cock,” Daniel said, voice deep. 

Jack nuzzled into dark hair, tracing his lips along the shell of his ear. 

“Looking really wasn’t what I had in mind,” he whispered. Jack took the shiver and accompanying groan as assent and slid to the floor, kneeling in front of Daniel on the couch. He only had one foot to press into the floor and lift his hips, but he got his ass up off the couch far enough for Jack to pull the boxers down. He spared a glance for Daniel’s now-bare thigh, but it seemed much less important than it had been a few minutes ago. 

His mouth watered to see Daniel standing hard in front of him, thick and flushed with a slightly red-purple cast. Jack slid his hands, palm-up, under Daniel, drawing him closer. Thighs slid over his upper arms as Jack sank his fingers into the firm muscular buttocks, hot against his palms. He ghosted breath over the glistening tip and looked up, licking his lips. He half expected a protest as he cradled Daniel’s pelvis, robbing him of any leverage. Instead he found Daniel looking at his mouth, eyes lidded, his hands moving to slide into Jack’s hair. 

He wanted to take it slow, to tease the tip with his tongue, to slowly add suction. The hands in his hair grasped tightly at the roots and he forgot, sinking down rapidly until the tip hit the back of his throat. The salty tang of Daniel’s skin and precum stroked Jack’s own desire. He followed by pulling off quickly, tongue dragging and cheeks hollowing. There was an answering groan and the flexing of Daniel’s hips encouraged him to set a quick pace. 

“Jack,” came a moan. Daniel tugged at his hair, hard, as if to pull him off, but Jack just slid down again, relaxing his throat to accept the hot pulses that followed. He swallowed twice before he slid off slowly, settling Daniel’s hips back down on the couch as he stood up. 

An arm shot up, grabbing Jack’s shirt at the neck, Daniel dragging him back down to crash their lips together again. Bent over at the waist, Jack let him bite and nip at his lips, distracted by Daniel jerking his fly open, sliding a hand into his boxers. When Daniel’s hand finally wrapped around Jack’s cock, his hips jerked into it so hard he almost overbalanced. He was stopped from falling onto Daniel by the hand at the root of his cock while the other shifted to press against the base of his throat. Jack had a flash of a different scenario, _Daniel pinning him down instead of holding him up, hands in the same locations but squeezing in unison._

Reality reasserted itself with the nearly-painful stroke of Daniel’s hand, rough and too dry even as it picked up moisture from his leaking tip. Jack whimpered, fighting to keep his hips still and his body balanced even while he pressed his throat against Daniel’s hand. He hung on the edge for an age, afraid to fall. _This was probably what it was like for Daniel all the time,_ he thought. Always off-balance, teetering. Then the hand on his cock twisted and Jack’s back arched and his mind went blank with his release.

It was an unusual and blessedly long moment before he found himself still panting, standing over Daniel, dampness in his boxers cooling rapidly. 

“You look surprised,” Daniel teased. 

“That doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Jack said, leaning down to kiss him again.


	4. Let it burn

Daniel was surprised how easily Jack slipped into his life.

He’s surprised how much he liked it. Jack’s know-it-all attitude still was still irritating and they snapped and poked at each other as much as anything. That made it better somehow. His family, army buddies, coworkers--they all seemed to need him to be okay. They wanted Daniel to be the man he was before, or at least pretend he was. That man had never come home from the war, and never would. 

He hasn’t told Jack how he lost his leg. He doesn’t know what Jack’s trying to scribble out in his notebooks. The bits he read to Daniel indicate it isn’t pretty. Some things are still off limits, but Daniel can be short-tempered and complain. Jack talked about his anger, how petty annoyances incited violence, the fights he started. They misstep and tread on each other’s sore spots but accept the resulting snarls. It’s not personal.

Soon enough they settled into a routine, a couple nights a week. Daniel explained he doesn’t always find it worth the effort or expense to go out and Jack started showing up with take-out. Daniel cooked to return the favor, and Jack always praised the simple fare. Daniel can admit it’s more rewarding to cook for someone beside yourself. They go and listen to music sometimes too, alone or meeting up with the people Jack knows. His family’s in D.C. and Daniel’s apparently no longer expects him to bring anyone home. It makes him angry but it limits complications.

Daniel’s spent enough nights alone--wondering if he’ll always be that way--to appreciate when he’s not, no matter how long it lasts. 

He could do without Jack’s friends, though. It’s a motley collection of draft dodgers, college students, and funny little men who always reek of grass. They don’t seem to care that they only see him with Jack, but they don’t like Daniel either. He overheard them calling him “square” and derided him for keeping the job he hates. They either live on family money like Jack or drift from one hard labor job to another. Daniel wouldn’t up and quit a job just because he got tired of it, but he didn’t have the option, either. 

He’s less than enthused when Jack asks him to a party. 

“It’s not that kind of party,” Jack reassured him. “I know you hate my friends. Not that this will be an improvement; all my father’s friends are going.”

“Your dad? You think it’s a good idea I go with you to something like that?”

“I think it’s a great idea. I have to go because my father is unable to be there. If I take a dame to a fancy party like that, she’s going to get ideas. If I go alone, I’ll have to flirt with all the girls.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t enjoy it,” Daniel said. Jack liked being the center of attention, if nothing else.

“Flirt with the wrong girl at one of these parties and you might be engaged by the end of the week, depending how ready her mama is to be rid of her,” Jack said. “I was going to say, if I bring you, then I’m showing my friend a good time. I can hardly sneak off without him--with a girl or with one of my dad’s slimy friends, trying to convince me to go to law school.”

“Yeah, I suppose it would look bad if you dragged a cripple to a party and then had a good time without him.”

“You don’t have to be like that. I want you to go for my own selfish reasons, it’s true. I won’t be completely miserable if you go with me. We might even have a good time eating their catered food and drinking their free booze.”

“You should have started with ‘free booze.’”

He does a lot of things he’d rather not, because Jack asks politely. Acquiring a second-hand tuxedo and scraping together the cost of alterations is only the most recent. Daniel tries not to think about it too much, but it’s probably because no matter how many dinners he cooks, they’ll never be even. There’s no way to keep up with the cabs and drinks and take-out. Jack doesn’t care, but Daniel does--which is why he doesn’t want to wear his uniform, although Jack emphasized that would be okay. He can at least show up _looking_ like he belongs.

He decided they both look pretty good. Jack was born to wear a tux, the simple lines and crisp white shirt set off his jawline and blue eyes. Daniel watched them darken as Jack took him in for the first time. The crutch ruined the effect, of course, but Jack didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“I have half a mind to skip the party,” Jack said.

“Oh, no. I got dressed up; you’re taking me out,” Daniel responded. 

“I suppose it would be a waste if we kept this to ourselves. The cab awaits.”

They arrived with the party in full swing, more than fashionably late and just early enough not to imply an insult. The champagne flowed liberally, which made it feel less awkward to be at a party where he knows no one.

Everyone knew Jack and were glad to see him. It took them twenty minutes to get to the bar because people kept stopping them to say hello. Jack said all the right things, smiled like he was glad to be there. He had become a different man when they walked into the party. Despite doing his best to appear outgoing, relaxed and charming, there was somehow less of him present. The Jack he knew was lost somewhere behind a shield of small talk and rich people manners. 

Drinks finally in hand, Jack took him over to meet the host of the party, although they had to mingle as they went. Daniel just sipped his gin and tonic and let the polite chatter wash over him, saying little. 

“Jack, I see you finally made it!” The man who pulled Jack in for a bear hug was taller than both of them, with a great barrel of a chest and a deep voice. 

“I’m here. Happy anniversary, by the way. Meet my friend Daniel Sousa. Daniel, this is Dell Frost, hotelier and my father’s best friend.” Dell seized his hand, which vanished into the man’s massive grip. Frost was intimidatingly large or would be if he didn’t appear so happy. He didn’t look like a hotelier to Daniel; despite his grey hair, he looked like a man who was capable of terrible things. 

“Yes, thank you both for coming to celebrate my thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Martha’s off with her girls somewhere, or I’d introduce you to her as well. But tell me what’s new with you, Jack. Six months in New York and this is the first time I’ve seen you! What are you keeping yourself busy with? Not chasing too many skirts, I hope.”

“No such thing,” Jack replied. Frost laughed. 

“Yeah, okay. Last time I talked to your father he said that you were considering joining the War Department instead of going to law school. Please tell me you’ve thought better of it.” 

Jack looked down at the floor for a minute before looking back up at Daniel.

“I wasn’t really considering a government job; one of his other friends made me an offer. I haven’t really made up my mind one way or another.”

“Despite your military service, I doubt your history degree would get you very far at War. I thought the whole point of that degree was to line you up for law school.”

“It was, Dell, it’s just that a lot has happened between now and then. You know that as well as anyone. I bet you didn’t expect the Army to commandeer half your Atlantic City properties to house wounded soldiers.” Daniel started a little at that. He had been one of the soldiers treated at the hotels-turned-hospitals down the coast.

“No, but the war is over, Jack. Tourism has picked back up. It’s time to get back to how things were before.”

Jack’s reply was interrupted by another guest coming up to congratulate Frost. Seeing the opportunity for escape, he practically dragged Daniel to a table in the corner. It was a relief to sit down, and he rubbed idly at his stump as he thought about what he could say to Jack about all of this. 

“I feel like I’m being suffocated,” Jack said, pulling at his collar. 

“From the penguin suit or the weight of everyone’s expectations?”

“Both--and the bare greed, the currying of favor, the power plays--all of it. At least when we’re down in the Village I can be myself.”

Daniel snorted.

“It’s true; no one cares what you’re like when they’re only focused on getting potted and having a good time without being bothered by anyone about it.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, if you ask me.” This interruption came from someone who looked terribly familiar, if shorter than he would have expected. He gestured at Daniel’s crutch where it was leaning against the table. “You know, I can help you with that.” 

“Stark. Who let you in this party? I didn’t think Dell invited traitors.” As frustrated as Jack was, Daniel was still surprised he was dropping the nice act; Howard Stark seemed to fit right in with this crowd, just like Jack. 

“There are no traitors here. I was cleared of all charges regarding the theft of my inventions. Steve Rogers himself found the people responsible, but I’m sure you read about it in the paper. Let’s see, blond hair, jaw that could cut glass, and terrible attitude: you must be John Thompson’s boy.” Stark seemed more amused than anything. 

Jack was on edge to begin with, and Daniel watched him tense in response to Stark’s remarks. This would be a bad situation for Jack to unleash his anger. 

“So you agree?” Daniel asked. “People should do whatever they want, even if it’s irresponsible and detrimental to their own existence?”

“One person’s irresponsibility is another man’s genius. I just know I wouldn’t have become a millionaire if I was worried what other people think. In the end, you can’t control how other people react to you, even if you do everything supposedly right. You can only control yourself; it’s a waste of energy to focus on anything else. This party for example: it’s terrible and not worth ruining tomorrow’s golf game over. You boys have a good night.” Stark nodded to them and wandered off. 

“I can’t believe I agree with Howard Stark, about anything,” Jack said.

“He can’t be sincere,” Daniel said. “Do you think anyone in this room got rich without being helped by or taking advantage of others?” Jack shrugged.

“I think he had the right idea, and it’s time to get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's totally hanging out with the founders of the beat poetry movement.
> 
> Dell is not related to Whitney Frost.
> 
> Eek I forgot to mention the hotels-turned-hospitals thing and Daniel being treated in AC is a totally rip off of Paeonia's excellent [Quo Vadis?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475)


	5. All you wish for

After the party, something changed. Jack wasn’t sure why, unless maybe it was the early winter getting the best of Daniel. The cold, wet, and dark weather suited Jack so well; as the year marched to an end, he even got a couple poems out of it. Poems unlikely to be read by anyone, as he had too few for a book and the end of his grace period was rapidly approaching. Daniel just slid further into the bottle until Jack couldn’t remember when he had last seen him even half-sober. They stayed in more, and the few times they ventured out, Daniel actually ended up sleeping at Jack’s place, too sloppy to be trusted to find his way home. Daniel wasn’t a bad drunk, so Jack didn’t mind. It was--cozy, somehow, all those nights in. He didn’t enjoy seeing Daniel in pain but something told him the resulting intimacy wouldn't have happened otherwise. 

Jack woke up early one morning, much earlier than usual. At first he wasn’t sure why, and then he realized what was wrong: he wasn’t alone in the bed. Daniel normally left before he awoke, but was still next to him, apparently still sleeping off last night’s medication. And he was going to be late to work if he didn’t leave immediately. Daniel might hate his job but his pride wouldn’t allow anything less than the fullest effort he could muster. He wouldn’t thank Jack for letting him sleep in. 

Jack wasn’t a sadist; he started the coffee before he prodded Daniel. It went about as well as he expected. Daniel’s groans were practically roars, full of pain and rage at being forced to deal with the world again.

“Daniel, you’re going to be late. Get up, get up.” It was two aspirin and half a cup of coffee before he received words in response. 

“My head feels like it’s splitting. I wish I was dead.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re going to be unemployed and wishing you were dead if you don’t get a move on. Come on.” Jack half dragged him to the bathroom and got Daniel scrubbing the boozehound smell away in a birdbath. Meanwhile, he busied himself digging through the dresser. He had an extra shirt somewhere that should fit Daniel’s wider shoulders. His father had given it to him, complaining the tailor made it too small. It was still too large for Jack’s narrow frame, a very tangible reminder that he’d never measure up to the old man. He found it balled in the back of the bottom drawer. It was light blue and would look nice with the tan suit Daniel had worn over last night. Jack had just the tie for him too and a clean undershirt that wouldn’t be too tight. He hauled out the iron, gave the shirt a quick press on the kitchen table, and did Daniel’s jacket while he was at it. The pants weren’t too bad. 

He took the clothes into the bathroom, only to find Daniel passed out, somehow sitting up on the toilet. He managed to wash up, including his stump, although his prosthetic had fallen to the floor. Well, at least he smelled better. Jack shook him awake again. 

“C’mon, Daniel. Time to get dressed.” From Daniel’s jacket pocket he removed the small tin that contained his personal supplies and shook out the stump sock that was folded there. Jack went to put it on, but that was apparently a bridge too far. Daniel snatched it from him, rolling it on himself. 

That shouldn’t sting like it did; of course Daniel wouldn’t want to be dressed like a child. Jack settled for handing him the prosthetic from the floor, followed by the pants. Daniel managed to get himself clothed in short order, although his hands stilled when they ran over the silk of the tie. 

“Jack, I can’t borrow this.” He could apparently tell it was a very fine silk. It featured tan and gold paisleys on a dark blue background and would bring out the gold flecks in Daniel’s eyes, assuming he could manage to keep them open. 

“You’re going to wear it, because we don’t have time to argue over dumb things like ties. Let’s go.” 

They shuffled down the stairs at an even slower pace than usual, Jack just ahead and ready to catch Daniel. He was wobbling quite a bit and Jack cursed his pride. He really wanted to throw Daniel’s arm over his shoulders and walk him down, but he’d never allow Jack to help him like that. At least at the curb he flagged down a taxi before Daniel could protest, not that it stopped him from trying.

“Jack--no, you know I can’t--”

“We both know you’re in no condition to deal with all the stairs in and out of the subway right now, even if you did have time to wait on trains, which you don’t.” He shoved some bills into Daniel’s chest pocket. “There’s enough for the cab, for coffee at work, and lunch. Now get your butt to work before I kick it there.” 

Jack’s early morning turned into a productive day. By the time he heard Daniel’s limping gait in the hall, he had tidied the apartment, written two poems, and fetched groceries. Daniel entered without knocking and laid change out on the table. Jack watched his hand shake as he did so. He had half expected the extra money would go for a drink or two on the way home. At most Daniel had paid the cabbie, drank one cup of coffee, eaten a cheese sandwich for lunch, and bought a subway token for the ride back. Jack sighed and pulled a new bottle from the bag still on the counter. He splashed gin into a glass, added a couple ice cubes and a twist of lime and dropped it in front of Daniel, now seated at the kitchen table.

“I don’t want--”

“You don’t want to go cold turkey in the middle of the work week,” Jack cut him off. “You’re already shaking. Just drink the damn thing.” Daniel did. Jack turned to fix him another.

“I get paid in three days, I’ll pay you back.”

“You know I don’t care about the money.” 

Daniel didn’t respond. Silence stretched between them, pregnant with something he wasn’t saying. Jack waited, watching him stare into his glass. At least Daniel’s tremors had subsided. 

Eventually Daniel got up from the table and started poking through the fridge and the bags on the counter, putting some things away and assembling others. He washed his hands and after drying them carefully, hung his jacket on a chair and removed Jack’s tie and held it out to him. Jack took it, but tucked it into Daniel’s jacket pocket when he turned away. 

Soon Daniel was busy chopping, mixing and otherwise transforming raw ingredients into something edible. Jack slumped in his chair, watching. Eventually Daniel found his voice.

“I need a change,” he said without looking at Jack.

“From this?” Jack kept his tone level, a near-miracle.

“No. Yes. I can't keep drinking like this--I can’t even remember last night.”

“I thought that was the point. Dissociation.”

“I don’t _want_ to need it though. I’m not one of your lousy friends, Jack.”

“So tell me what you do want, then.” Jack was ready for Daniel to tell him he wanted something normal--or at least less furtive, less marginal. It would hurt, but he was ready for it. Daniel might be missing a leg but otherwise he would be a catch for some lonely girl: handsome, with a decent job, and while he was a cranky bastard much of the time, he wasn’t cruel. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, about moving somewhere warmer. More than thinking, actually. I asked my doc at the V.A. and he said it would probably be a good idea. And this came today.” Daniel stopped cooking long enough to draw an envelope from his inner jacket pocket. He put it in front of Jack carefully, before turning back to the stove.

It was an approval letter from the V.A., establishing benefits for Sousa to attend a specific program at a specific school--in California.

“Engineering?” he asked.

Sousa finally turned around to look at him.

“I did something similar in service. I liked it. It would be a challenge, but one worth pursuing, I think. The library is--”

“Stifling,” Jack finished. He wasn’t surprised by the major so much as the scope of the plan. His grace period was almost up but that wouldn’t have meant any changes for them, if he went to law school in the city. This was something completely unexpected. Jack stared at the letter. 

“I want you to come with me.”

Jack jerked his head up to stare at Daniel in disbelief. He gave a little half shrug and turned back to the stove before continuing.

“I don’t like your friends, but I do listen to them, their plans to head there one day. I think you’d like it.”

He would certainly like California. He liked that Daniel wanted him to go even more. That didn’t mean it would work.

“My father would disown me. Cut me off. I can’t just run off--”

“You can. My parents, they took up a collection around the neighborhood. Moving expenses. We could live on my stipend while you look for a job. You can keep writing in your spare time. Jack, you don’t _need_ your father. And I need to go.” 

“Of course you need to go. This is amazing! I’m so happy for you.” 

“But…?”

“You did kind of spring this on me out of nowhere, you know. Let me think about it.” Jack could do this. Could he do this?


	6. If I was stronger

Even when Jack said he’d go, Daniel didn’t quite believe it.

It didn’t help that he had awoke at night, tossing with phantom pain when he gave up the gin. He wasn’t going to start over with a monkey on his back. It was a rough couple of months for him, between withdrawal and restarting physical therapy to deal with the pain. It didn’t eliminate it, not nearly, but it gave him something to focus on. They had plans to make in the daytime and that helped, too--until he tried to sleep.

Then the nagging little voice that came with the pain told him Jack would never leave the east coast. Never give up his father’s money. Never stay, even if he did trek west, because this had just been a stop-gap for both of them. A brief respite between the war and moving on, as expected.

It didn’t matter. _Focus on yourself._ It was easier said than done during the night. He dragged himself out of bed, forcing his body through the prescribed stretches and exercises, all the time trying to picture palm trees and the sunshine that would replace the grey New York winter. Jack had described the Pacific ocean so many times, Daniel was convinced that reality would be a let down.

“Bluer than your eyes?” Daniel asked, amused that was the comparison Jack made.

“Much bluer. Bluer than bluebonnets in the spring.”

“I've never seen bluebonnets,” Daniel said.

“Me either, but they sound very blue. The Pacific is so blue that nothing will ever look blue again. Indigo maybe, brackish blue-brown for sure, but not blue.”

Imagining floating buoyant in cold salt water did a lot to soothe him to sleep. When it didn't work, well, being tired was better than hungover, or at least that's what Daniel told himself.  
It was hard, but not as hard as learning to walk again. At least this time he had a direction.

A couple of his army buddies had moved west; one of them helped Daniel find a place to stay that wouldn't look askance if they did end up double bunking it. It was well below Jack's standards but cheap enough that Daniel's student stipend would cover it. The gang at the library threw him a little going-away party with cake, and if he suspected they were just glad to be rid of him, he wasn't shedding tears at leaving them to the books and the dust. 

He left buying his train ticket until the last minute, hoping that Jack would be ready to purchase one too.

It didn't help, and eventually he couldn't wait any longer. He'd have just enough time to travel and have a couple of days to settle in before classes started; Jack promised to follow later. He insisted on seeing Daniel off at the train station, for some reason. They stood in awkward silence until his train was announced.

“You're going to love it,” Jack said. “Study hard and time will fly. Don't forget to write, and I'll see you soon.” Daniel recognized that insincere smirk. Everything Daniel wanted to tell him was not only inappropriate in public, but far too bald.

“Thank you, Jack,” he said. It was insufficient, but it was all he had right then. He hefted his bag and headed down the stairs, carefully watching his balance. He was surprised and a little relieved Jack hadn't followed him onto the train platform, clucking like a mother hen. He found out why when the conductor handed back his ticket at the door to coach.

“This is a first class ticket, sir. Four cars up.”

Daniel stared it at disbelief. He wasn't looking forward to spending nearly a week in coach accommodations, and now in his hand he held a first class ticket to a private sleeper cabin of his own. The ticket folio was thicker than it should have been too, with what looked like a letter inside. He waited until he found his cabin and put away his luggage to investigate.

_Dearest Daniel,_

_I know you'll be angry with me for being so high-handed, but I think you'll forgive me when you're sleeping in a real bed instead of some bunk with three other guys snoring nearby. Make sure you write and tell me what everything looks like between New York and California. When I follow, I want to be able to tell you how poorly and inelegantly you've described it. See you soon._

_Yours,_

_Jack_

He stared at the letter for a long time, and the crisp twenty dollar bill that had been folded inside. He had half been expecting a Dear John full of excuses, but that wouldn't be Jack.  


He did get a steady stream of letters. 

_Volumes of words have been spilled on the beauty and grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, but you just call them “white” and “tall.” You couldn't sell water in a heatwave. You're gonna fit right in with the other engineers._

_I'm sure the desert is brown, but what kind of brown? Did it feel peaceful, or barren? How was it textured? Yes, I've figured out you're just trying to get my goat. I suppose I asked for it.  
_

_I know you hate the gang at the White Horse so you'll really hate this. I greatly embellished all your descriptions when I relayed them, except that of the palm trees. They liked that one. Try to keep that dendrophilia to yourself, pal. It's unseemly and might get you arrested._

The letters were a strange punctuation in between classes, study groups, and lots of math homework. At least numbers didn't have double meanings, present in every word of a poet. It was a strange juxtaposition. They still did a lot to help with his homesickness, although the gradual improvement in his pain did much for that as well. It was hard to miss the cold and aches in the warm sunshine. The water was just as blue as Jack had promised. 

His letters came even when Daniel was too busy studying to write back, and each one closed with “ _see you soon._ ” Until one week nothing arrived. Or for the two weeks after that.

He was unsurprised by the last one.

_Hey Pal,_

_I'm so glad to hear you aced all your midterms. I'm not surprised, just proud. I'm jealous of all the time you get to swim now, I can just picture you glowing from all that exercise and sunshine. It sounds disgusting._

_The worst has come to pass and my father has finally strong-armed me into law school. I got some concessions though; I'm staying in New York and kept the apartment. I expect you to look me up the next time you're back._

_I thought the war showed me for the coward I am, and then I met you. I'm not sure if you're the bravest man I ever met or just really stubborn, but either way you're too good for me. I hope you find a cute little girl to marry and have a whole passel of little Sousas. Teach them to be just as stubborn as you are._

_All my best, always,_

_Jack_

Knowing it was coming didn't make it any easier, but at least it wasn't some flowery kiss-off. The letter went into the box with the rest. After finals, he'd have the energy and distance to write an appropriately wry and casual reply.

He wondered if Jack would ever see the Pacific again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Paeonia for headcanon discussion and lillianfromaccounting for her beta services!
> 
> Title and chapter titles from the song Letters to Ghosts by Lucie Silvas


End file.
